


We Were Doomed From The Start

by ghostofsmilespassed



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hiatus fic, M/M, Suicide mention, alcohol and drug use mentioned, self harm mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-15 22:52:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofsmilespassed/pseuds/ghostofsmilespassed
Summary: “Patrick,” he spoke finally, voice rough and low. The singer waited, watching Pete’s unfocused eyes. “Patrick, what… what if we took a break?”~//~An angsty hiatus fic, written as if Pete was the one that wanted to take a break instead of Patrick.





	1. Isn't It Tragic?

**Author's Note:**

> Idk why this idea came to me, I don't even like angst fics, but here we are. The trigger warnings shouldn't be too graphic, but i'll put warnings in the notes if that particular chapter will be worse. Stay safe while reading please?

Patrick shivered and wrapped his jacket tighter around himself, starring as Pete took another slow drag off his cigarette. Since when in the hell did Pete smoke? The bassist sighed a puff of smoke as Patrick thought this, putting out the cigarette before throwing it off the balcony and onto the street below. Pete was leaning against the railing of their hotel balcony, and had been since Patrick returned from dinner. He’d been worried when Pete said he didn’t feel well enough to go, but looking at him now, Patrick was even more concerned. His eyes looked sunken in and exhausted, and the lack of eyeliner made his dark circles even more prominent. 

“Patrick,” he spoke finally, voice rough and low. The singer waited, watching Pete’s unfocused eyes. “Patrick, what… what if we took a break?” 

The singer blinked, unsure if he heard him correctly. After a moment of silence, Pete finally turned to look up at him from under his bangs, brown eyes looking worse than they had in a long time. They weren’t playful or joking or even angry like usual. No, Pete’s normally expressive eyes just looked… Dead. 

Patrick turned away from him, gasping slightly as he looked over the railing. He wanted to take a break… What did that even mean? The band? Them, as friends? Every possibility that swirled around the singer’s head just sent him further and further into panic. 

“I’m not.. I’m not saying, like, just.. Ending it completely. I’m just saying… A break. For a few months, until.. Until I get my shit together.” 

Patrick’s head whipped around to stare at him incredulously. Hadn’t he been trying to convince Patrick this entire time that it was him that had the problem, and not Pete himself? That Patrick had an alcohol problem, and anger issues, and needed to sort his shit out. 

“What do you mean?” he choked out. 

“I’m..,” he sighed, closing his eyes,” I’m doing bad again, Rick. Real bad. Like, Best Buy bad.” 

The words felt like a slap to the face. Pete hadn’t told him, hadn’t even acted like he was doing that bad… Patrick felt sick, felt horrible for not realizing how bad his best friend was doing. 

“Oh,” he said softly, trying to control the hurricane of thoughts in his head. 

“Everything with Ash… And then I hardly see Bronx anymore. I.. I missed his graduation from preschool.” Pete admitted, laughing darkly. “Not something you’d think would matter, but… It does to me. That I missed that, a tiny milestone in his life. I. Wasn’t. There." Pete choked on the last word, turning away from Patrick even though the singer knew he was crying. Patrick tentatively put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his thumb into the bassist’s skin as comfortingly as he could. 

“Pete… Pete we’ll figure it out, man. We.. We can take longer between albums, give you time with Bronx, and everyone… Everyone can breathe..” 

Pete shook his head, sniffling as he turned to look at Patrick. “I.. I don’t think that’s gonna work, Trick. I’m.. I’m kinda thinking about admitting myself again.” 

Patrick blinked, inwardly cringing at the thought. After Pete’s suicide attempt in the parking lot, they all supported him when he went into a facility, keeping it as secretive as possible so that no one found out. Pete seemed miserable there, and was zombie-like for days after they released him. The fact that he’s willing to go back.. That scared Patrick, chilled him to his core. 

“Patrick… I.. I want to put the band on hiatus. I don’t really know how long, but.. And Andy agrees with me, and I think he talked to Joe, so it’s not like.. It’s not like I’m just being selfish, right?”

Pete’s rambling had finally gotten to the singer. Patrick was staring at him, shocked, but slowly feeling the anger boiling just under his skin. They all discussed this without him, of-fucking-course they did. Insecurity and fear swirled along side the bitterness, and Patrick tasted bile as he spoke. “No. No, it’s pretty selfish. Pete, breaking up the fucking band just because you want a vacation? Really, man? If you want to take longer between the next album that’s, whatever, that’s fine, but fucking... “

Patrick huffed, turning away from Pete. He heard him sigh quietly. “Patrick, you know I don’t mean it like that. Please, man, I can’t.. I can’t fight with you, not right now.” 

“Why, Peter? Why the fuck can’t you sit here and argue. What, did you think I’d just be fine with you telling me the only fucking thing that matters to me has to stop because you can’t stop yourself from running into traffic? That’s not _my_ fucking fault Pete!”

The bassist flinched, but didn’t seem to take the bait. He turned his pleading eyes to Patrick, bottom lip quivering. “Trick, you know that’s not it, you know I wouldn’t-”

“I don’t think I know you at all anymore, Peter. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were getting bad again, huh? What the fuck is _wrong_ with you man, I’ve told you a million goddamn times to just _let me in, let me help you,_ before you get too bad and look what the fuck happens. You act like you’re fine, I guess so you can get attention or write angsty ass lyrics, but then you fucking implode and burn the rest of us. Why the fuck do you have to do this every goddamn time, Pete!”

_“Do you think I want to do this,”_ he shouted, voice cracking as tears finally fell down his cheeks. Patrick couldn’t help the guilty satisfaction he felt as he watched Pete get angry. “Do you think I like hurting you, hurting the other guys?” 

“If it bothers you, I can’t fucking tell,” Patrick hissed, crossing his arms over his chest. Pete glared at him through tears, but leaned back, taking a deep breath before speaking. His breath was much more steady when he spoke, “Patrick, I’m not doing this. We are not doing this again. It’s.. Fuck it, man. You and the guys can do whatever the hell you feel like if you want, but I’m gone. I can’t do this, Trick. I can’t.” His voice broke as he threw up his hands, pushing past Patrick to walk into the hotel room. Patrick followed after him, ice shooting through his veins as he watched Pete begin throwing things into his suitcase. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Patrick? I’m packing.” 

“The plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow.” 

“And I won’t be on it,” Pete said coolly, walking into the bathroom to grab his wash bag. He threw that onto his clothes and closed the bag, zipping it up in one quick motion. Patrick sat down on his own bed, eyes wide as he watched Pete pull on his hoodie and set his duffel bag on the floor. 

“I’ll call Andy when I land, and let him know I made it to my mom’s safely. I… I want to be left alone for a while.” Pete said, not looking at Patrick. The singer didn’t bother moving, and flinched when Pete slammed the door on his way out. 

Patrick stared at the floor for what felt like hours before he finally whispered, “Don’t leave me,” into the empty air. The only reply he got was silence, the sound of cars going past. Patrick gasped, tears forming in his eyes as the crushing emptiness sank in. Pete had left him. Pete left him, left the band, and he didn’t even seem to care. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Patrick managed to kick off his shoes and shove his face in his pillow before he started sobbing.


	2. Doesn't It Feel Like Our Time Is Running Out? - Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Madison ( @/rosecolouredgorl on tumblr) for all the help you gave me on this!! Also special shout-out to my friend Spencer (@hidefromeveryone), who is an angst loving nerd and constantly gives me inspiration with the fics they write.

Patrick stared up at the ceiling, debating if it was worth it to get up and get dressed. Sundays were always the most exhausting for him, now. Saturdays and Sundays were the only days out of the week that Patrick would take a break from his exercise routine, and while Saturday was never that bad, Sundays were sore and hard to handle. It didn't help that he had fucked up again. Saporta's birthday party was the end to his 30 day chip; he had a little too much to drink last night, and he was most definitely regretting it this morning. 

Groaning, Patrick pulled himself into a sitting position, his pale blue comforter piling in his lap. Even with the blinds closed, the sunlight streaming into his room was much too bright. He scrunched his eyes closed, covering them with the palms of his hand. For a moment he sat like that, fingers tugging at the hair that fell onto his forehead, before he finally sighed and looked up. A squint over at the digital alarm clock on his nightstand told him it was still a little early. Well, before lunchtime at least. Sighing, Patrick carefully turned his head to look at his bathroom door, debating if it was worth his bladder exploding to stay in bed a while longer. After deciding he would rather not become a million tiny Patrick-like chunks on his floor, he managed to get out of bed without falling, and made it to the bathroom. 

The cold water he splashed on his face helped only a little, and he huffed when his face was finally mostly dry. 'I look like hell,' he thought, considering himself in the mirror. He looked smaller, that much was obvious. His freshly bleached hair stuck up in every direction, and he still smelled like booze. With bloodshot eyes framed by dark circles, you could almost say he resembled a younger Pete Wentz. 

Pete. Patrick frowned at himself, remembering all at once the events of last night's party, and just why he had gotten so drunk. Patrick stumbled on the way back to his bedroom, searching around the mess on his carpet for the pants he'd worn the night before. Patrick sat on the edge of his bed once he found them, thinking over it for a moment before he pulled the little piece of paper out of his pockets. 

Gabe hadn't told _him_ that he invited all of his friends last night, all of which included Pete Wentz. Patrick was at the bar ordering his first drink for the night when Pete casually walked up beside him and ordered a soda, seemingly not even noticing Patrick was there. Immediately, hot anger and hurt rose from his stomach, tasting like bile in his throat. His fingers twitched, almost needing to ball themselves into a fist and punch the nearest person, but Patrick was trying to gain control of his anger issues. Carefully, he repeated the breathing pattern his therapist had taught him to calm down, eyes locked on the drink in his hand. He refused to make a scene. Starting something here, with so many paparazzi and other celebrities here, would surely ruin things for them both. 

With a wince, Patrick downed his entire drink, sighing softly once he set it back onto the wooden countertop. Politely, he turned to the bartender, asking him for a refill without much spectacle. He felt Pete turn to face him, felt him hesitate before speaking softly. "Oh, Hey Patrick. You been doing well?" 

That had been it. Frustratingly polite conversation at a bar, with a nosy bartender that hovered over them both. It was hours later that he finally noticed the piece of paper slid into his pockets alongside his phone. 

"Been thinking a lot, and I want to talk to you soon. Call me, Rick, please? - Pete" below that was a number that was unfamiliar to Patrick, but the handwriting was something he knew so very well. Patrick had swallowed hard and shoved the paper back into his pants, ignoring the odd looks he got when he ordered yet another drink. Now, sitting alone in his messy bedroom with a pounding headache and a throbbing in his chest, Patrick picked up his phone. 

For a moment, all Patrick could do was stare at the numbers he'd typed. His thumb hovered over the send key, while his mind debated once again if it was worth it to call Pete. 

On one hand, he loved Pete, even still. He'd idolized him at fifteen, became best friends with the guy by seventeen, and had basically been in love with him since. Despite all of his faults, Pete had always been there for him. No one else encouraged Patrick like Pete did, no one told him he was beautiful, or talented, or special like Pete did, like they really believed what they were saying. Like they really cared about him. 

On the other hand, though, it was Pete that broke his heart. He split the band, despite all of them agreeing it wasn't them breaking up, only taking a break. Thinking about it brought the taste of bile to his throat, and Patrick had to take deep breaths to keep himself from crying. Pete hurt him so badly when he left, when he refused to talk to him. But... 

But what if this fixed things. What if Pete wanted to come back? What if Pete missed the band? What if he missed _him_? 

With a heavy sigh, Patrick lay back on his bed, looking at the phone in his hand. Before he could change his mind, Patrick pressed the send key for the first time in the forty-five minutes he'd been there. His heart rate seemed to get faster the longer the phone rang, until finally, _finally_ , a sleepy voice answered him. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey," Patrick said softly, eyes staring unfocused up at his ceiling. 

"Patrick?" Pete's voice asked in disbelief. The blonde snorted. 

"Yeah, yeah it's me. I don't really believe it either." 

Pete laughed once, a quick, humorless laugh that made ice settle further down in Patrick's chest. "So, uh.. Look." The politeness had evaporated from his voice. It had changed to the tone Patrick was familiar with, but loathed so much. Pete was scared, his tone small and pleading. Patrick was reminded of the many nights Pete had begged him for reassurance that he wasn't a waste of space, that he deserved to live and be happy, that he wasn't a monster. That the things in his head couldn't kill him if he didn't let them. 

“I know.. I know it’s random of me to call you, and especially random for me to be asking this, but.. Well, I, um.. I’ve been working on some stuff, and, well… I,” Pete sighed, the rest of his words coming out in a rush, “I was wondering if you wanted to work on songs with me.” 

“Like, Fall Out Boy songs,” Patrick said slowly, feeling the familiar heat of anger begin in his chest. 

“Yeah,” came the hopeful reply. 

“No.” 

There was a pause. “N-No..?” 

“Yeah Pete, no. I’m not.. I’ve been working on a few solo projects, things I’d wanted to do for a while, but just didn’t sound right for Fall Out Boy. I’m.. I’m doing better, y’know? You were right, we all did need a break to get our shit together, and that’s what I’m trying to do.” 

“Oh.” Pete’s voice was soft, but Patrick could tell his words had hurt the bassist. A small part of himself felt guilty, but for the most part, his vindictive brain was almost gleeful at the pain in his voice. 

“I’m, uh.. I’m sorry for bothering you then, Patrick.” 

“It’s fine, Peter,” Patrick paused, biting his lip, before he spoke again, “Look, um, I need to go. If you want, though, you could call me back later or something?” 

“No, no it’s okay. Thank you for talking to me, Patrick,” the phone was silent for two heartbeats, before Pete’s voice came out softly through the speaker. 

“I love you.” The phone clicked, and Patrick looked down at the end call screen in disbelief. His chest rose and fell painfully, Pete’s words echoing in his head. _How dare he_ , he thought. _How dare he act like he cares, when **he left me.**_ Growling, Patrick sat up, hurling his phone at the wall. He watched it shatter through the tears in his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if they were from rage or hurt. 

In LA, Pete was sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wall. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he managed to take a shuddering breath before sobs wracked his body. He leaned forward, his face in his hands, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will focus more on Pete and his struggles, both past and present. Thank you so much for reading this, leave a comment if you like it so far! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you notice any mistakes, or if you just wanna yell at me to put out another chapter (which might honestly help). Thank you so much if you read this, and extra love to you if you do comment


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